W O RD S
i, as me if “i” am One
as though, when child
greatest mysteries revealed
in TWILIGHT.
there as then IS one
as alone as none —– we
look
confused // the gulf of mis-
pronounced history-LOVE
Thinking: –> surpass
fleshingly aches of Life;
Kiss and knowing ALWAYS
this one of ME
out of any reach.
W O RD S
:: 01-24-2019 ::
WITH thin fingers
(my love) who knows
worlds of than great;
a summer’s glint
more as eyes, love
as a disguise unknown
were victories nameless
beside their glories
Stood cold so damp
memories of
or
goldenly floating
inside my youth i
sang dreams penetrating
space over time
washed away all glint
of light within my mind
Well, we dare — escaping
alive silentness gods
to kiss “most beautiful
o most beautiful” hearts
her, my life, as liars
kill their kind.
:: 01-24-2019 ::
MEMORIES are wet streets
reflecting a light
And the distant storm
a table cloth of denial
An edge of coming Winter
razor blades of truth
Endings and beginnings
of wars and songs.
:: 01-24-2019 ::
There as still and quiet as dead.
Sleeping. ?
Yes.
The walls had grown used to the scene. The dreams tired of the same actors with different faces.
The dead take care of their own.
The corpse lit the room’s lamp and in the gray dark began to work.
It bathed the perpetually sleeping body that lay in bed. Trimmed the hair and applied blush to it’s cheeks.
The sleeping know nothing of the awakened world; the dead know nothing of the sleeping but that they sleep the deepest of all. Dripping, the legs were dried.
The sleeper’s eyes opened.
The corpse closed them with the coldest of fingers.
Placing the stiff scrub brush upon the nightstand the corpse was pleased with the Sleeper.
And smiled.
:: 01-15-2019 ::
Of course! It is apparently
— so, do you also know?
and how did you realize it
— too, by two’s, four’s
or even more?
We’re mad.
And now it’s written
so there it goes!
A dream, a thought
as a bird does soar
of course! And now,
–now, aren’t you glad.
We’re mad.
:: 01-06-2018 ::
Climbing away
from the dream
went a dreamer
who was alive.
Climbing away
from the dream.
He spoke aloud,
with a tired mouth
which was numb
from his sleep.
Climbing away
from the dream.
In the dark of night
he spoke:
“Awake from the dream!”
He climb away from
the dream into
another.
:: 11-25-2018 ::
WHETHER morticians wear
the makeup of cadavers
or madness is the friendliest
voice makes no difference
you are sick
to believe loud colors
have no mouth
and the trunks of people
grow deeply rooted roads
that have many toll booths
the rich pay for free things
and the poor steal dreams
those dead envy the living
and those alive
feel so dead.
:: 10-27-2018 ::
No longer a thought
within my brain,
the mortician lay me
down to sleep
a scream i refrained
surfaced as white
within my eyes
that none had bought
my vitals he checked
and thumped my nose
as a creep
then:
a bath and massage
no dance but song
two strong hands
then set my face
arterial embalming
then drain/eject
it’s all the same
the cavity —
aspirate and concentrate
The humming thrumming
burning desire
escaped as soon as with
a pop I fled my skin
and faced the choice
to do it once again.
:: 10-23-2018 ::
TODAY is the day
I died after the clouds broke
their water and still-birthed
the evening.
I am standing outside
by the edge of a mysterious
forest and the wolves are
sniffing the air but cannot
find me.
I am a ghost. And my house
is the tomb I was born within
but no longer contains me.
There is an empty space
within my heart’s shape
that no artist can draw:
all words too broken
for any poet to express
my emotions.
I was birthed on the day
the beautiful angels were
sick and have now died
as God is sick and the world
a breath away from me.
::: 10-23-2018 ::
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E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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